My grandpa was a rascal and a tease with a sweet tooth. I have such fond memories of him. His heart was so big. He loved to sneak food scraps to the family cat while at the table, even though this was verboten in my house, where his eldest daughter lived.
Grandpa Olson was an outdoorsman who grew up on a farm in Alpena, Michigan. He fished, hunted deer, and chopped down my family Christmas trees for numerous winter celebrations.
He could cook and owned a restaurant, so unlike my father. He was social and had a girlfriend later in life, and he outdated me every New Year’s Eve.
Grandpa Olson understood nature. There was a small garden behind his home in Detroit, and he planted a beautiful maple tree when my family moved out to the suburbs. I know that tree is still standing today even though I live far from it. I have a special picture of it on my phone, and I have it displayed on my home screen. This picture was taken the day after my mother’s passing.
Grandpa Olson lived a good, long life. He was a proud and polite Norwegian who said, “Takk for maten,” after every meal. His big, strong lap was a favorite place to visit, holding more than one granddaughter. Giggles always emitted after his Norwegian finger play about the raven going over the hill where his soft, padded fingers surreptitiously crawled up our backs and ended with a neck pinch. “PEEP!”
Grandpa Olson was the epitome of a grandfather. He was the only one in my lifetime, and he will always be in my heart.